Chapter Eighteen #2
What would it be like to kiss those strong shoulders? To bite into the muscle of his thighs? It must just be because he’s tired – gone is the willpower to hold these thoughts and fantasies back. He really should get a hold of himself. It’s not right to think this stuff when Nash is right there.
‘Who were you speaking to?’ Nash asks, not looking up, and for a moment Christopher worries that Nash might have been able to hear his horny thoughts. He feels naked. In a bad way.
‘W-what?’
‘Outside. I could hear you through this very poorly maintained window.’
‘Oh. The cat.’
‘You saw it again?’
‘I think so. I mean, it could have been a fox. Or a badger.’
‘I hope it’s not a badger.’
‘Why?’
‘I just don’t trust anything that only comes out at night.’
It’s such a bizarre sentence that Christopher can’t help but burst out laughing, and to his relief Nash joins in. ‘Noted. A new Nash Nadeau fear – nocturnal creatures.’
Nash raises an eyebrow at him. ‘I think being a little afraid of the unfamiliar dark is normal.’
‘Do you not like camping then?’
‘Yeah. Inside my tent. Where there are no badgers. Anyway, we’re getting off track. I did something nice.’
He can’t help the laugh that escapes him. ‘I don’t think it counts as doing something nice if you tell the other person it’s nice.’
‘Stop being a pedant. While we were out cooling down, I went to the corner shop and picked up some truly disgusting-looking frozen pizzas for us.’
So many of the muscles in Christopher’s body seem to relax at once. ‘That might be the most beautiful sentence I’ve ever heard.’
‘Don’t get too excited. It’s real bottom-of-the-barrel stuff. One of them has the word “sloppy” in the title.’
‘If it’s cheese and bread, that’s good enough.’
‘Oven’s heating up. Why don’t we pick something to watch from Net—’
‘NO.’
Christopher is about to rush to the coffee table to pre- emptively lose the TV remote, when Nash bursts out laughing.
‘Man, that was too easy.’
‘I’m just . . . very protective! Of my algorithm!’
‘Okay, I’m sure that might be true, but is it also possible . . .’ Nash pauses, not taking his eyes from Christopher, ‘that you’ve known who I am the whole time and just decided to be a bit of a prick about it for your own amusement? Don’t go into acting by the way. You’re horrendous at it.’
Well.
Nash has him there.
‘All right, so I’ve seen a few of your films.’
‘And knew who I was.’
‘And knew who you were. But I was trying to not freak you out. And then if you hadn’t been so impossibly annoying the first night and next morning, then I probably would have told you.
And then it just had been too long for me to casually bring it up without sounding like I’d trapped you into staying with me. ’
Nash cackles so hard that he almost falls over.
‘All right, I’ll admit I wasn’t my shiniest self when I got here,’ Nash manages to get out in between his cackles, ‘but in my defence I had just been in a truck with a load of sheep being questioned on which celebrity women I’d slept with.’
‘I thought he was just a fan of your films?’
‘Yeah, but Gethin seemed to think it was his duty to interview me. Perhaps he’s the leader of some rabid fan community. Instead of Club Chalamet, perhaps Club Nadeau.’
Christopher tries to hide his discomfort about all this fandom chat, but can’t help but say, ‘That’s barely alliterative. They must have a better name. Have you not googled them?’
‘Calloway, I’m publicly trans. Whatever is said about me on the internet is not for my eyes.’
‘Ah yes. Fair point.’
Christopher slides the pizzas out of their cardboard boxes, and sees that Nash really wasn’t being hyperbolic about the quality of them. Sometimes, what you really need is just a poorly constructed food that may or may not contain actual cheese.
‘Go on, go sit down. I’ll get these in.’
Nash does as he’s told, and it doesn’t take Christopher long to get the pizzas onto some roughly appropriately sized baking sheets and in the oven. He’s somewhat pleased to see that Nash hasn’t even turned the television on, though obviously he’d already logged out of his streaming apps anyway.
‘So . . . is that a hobby of yours?’ Christopher asks, as he settles back onto the couch next to Nash.
‘Riding with sheep?’
‘Dating around. You seem to be . . . well, what I mean is the media don’t seem to report on you much. You’re quite private.’
Nash grins with glee and cackles. ‘Oh god, is this a Swimfan situation. The fan becomes the obsessive? Or maybe Der Fan? Maybe that’s too much of a deep cut. Perhaps Hitchcock’s Vertigo?’
Christopher gets the sense that if he doesn’t interrupt Nash now, he’ll just keep going listing obscure films. ‘I really do think you should give up on this line of thought.’
‘I really do think you should give up on this line of thought,’ Nash repeats in what sounds like a vague impression of Queen Elizabeth the Second.
‘Stop that.’
‘I will not. And to answer your question, no, I don’t date much. I mean, I’m not a hermit. I have a life, I see people,’ he says, with a yawn as though the conversation is so nothingy to him that he can barely stay awake for it.
What must that be like, Christopher wonders, to be so casual about whether you’re seeing people.
But then again, didn’t he say something weird earlier about being hurt?
He hasn’t learned to read Nash yet, but he’s starting to get the sense that there are two Nashes.
The Nash he shows everyone, and the Nash who occasionally appears, like during the conversation about his neurological disorder in the car.
‘The reason you don’t see it in the press is that I’m not that interesting to them, and I make it my job to be that way. I don’t want the intrusion into my life, or the lives of my friends, you know?’
‘That makes sense,’ Christopher says. ‘Sorry for googling you, I guess.’
‘Why does that sound so dirty when you say it?’ Nash cackles again.
‘It does not.’
‘It does! Everything you say sounds kind of smutty in that accent. And I don’t mean my version of it. I mean your proper, silver-spoon accent.’
His mouth goes dry. Nash must just be joking, surely? ‘I thought my accent made things sound ridiculous?’
‘Depends what you’re saying, I suppose.’
‘Then what would you want me to say?’
Christopher didn’t even mean to say it but when the words leave his lips, everything changes. He could swear there’s a crackle in the air.
It must just be how tired they are, but then again, this feels new. A different kind of energy from their usual spats. It’s heavier, charged. As if they’re circling something.
Nash’s eyes roam over Christopher’s face. Is he wondering what the hell he’s talking about or is it something else? Is . . . is Nash appraising him? Christopher feels as if he’s being examined, and that he might like it.
‘You want me to give you lines? Or are you asking for something else?’ Nash asks, his voice deepening.
It has been a while, but Christopher recognises the hungry look in Nash’s eyes. He’s pretty sure it’s written all over his face too.
His eyes flit from Nash’s eyes down to his mouth and Christopher feels his stomach drop.
He could live inside that look.
Time slows down, just for a second, and all Christopher can hear is the beat of their hearts, a drumbeat of tension.
It’s almost automatic and somewhat unconscious, but suddenly they are reaching for each other.
Christopher pulls him close as Nash clambers forward, ending up with Nash straddling Christopher’s body. They’re face to face, and just for a second they watch each other, as if confirming that this isn’t a daydream for either of them. That this really could be happening.
That it is.
Hungrily, they kiss. It’s a hard, demanding kiss, that pushes Christopher’s head back against the headrest of the couch.
Nash’s back is strong and firm under Christopher’s touch, and as the kiss deepens, he drags Nash closer to him, their hips locked together.
Is this really happening? Christopher can’t be entirely sure that it isn’t another of his dreams, but the sensation of Nash cradling his face can’t be imagined. Nash’s hands, rougher than Christopher had imagined, trace the stubbled edge of his jaw.
It’s electricity, and a sigh escapes Christopher’s lips. It seems to please Nash, who smiles mischievously into their kiss.
And then Nash grinds his hips against Christopher. It’s a little embarrassing how loudly Christopher gasps at the friction, but it’s clear that Nash is enjoying this.
The smug bastard.
Christopher clutches the front of Nash’s shirt in his fist, daring him to move again. He can’t get enough of the air or Nash or this kiss. It’s a delicious drowning, and he’s drunk on it.
‘You like that,’ Nash whispers. It’s not a question. It’s truth. And in answer, a second grind of his hips is met with another moan.
It’s too much.
It’s been too long.
Nash leans back and fixes him with a sharp, satisfied grin of power. It’s the grin of a nasty little fae king – a smile he’s never seen him wear on film. This is all for them right now, and Christopher wants to fall into it.
It floods him with something new. A fiery confidence that flushes his senses.
‘Take your shirt off,’ Christopher growls, and Nash does so. It’s quite possibly the first time Nash has ever done what he’s told. And, while it’s not the first time Christopher’s seen Nash topless, it’s the first time he’s let himself look.
And he’s just as beautiful as Christopher imagined. That softly sculpted chest, leading down to a firm and even more sculpted belly. He kisses softly at the hard muscle between Nash’s shoulder and neck, and relishes the returned gasp he hears in his ear.
He traces fingers down Nash’s chest, down, down to his belt. But before he can unbuckle it, Nash takes Christopher’s hands and pins them back above his head.
Nash’s eyes are fire and heat, and even though it feels like a war for power between them, he submits. He lies back as Nash gets to his knees and hungrily kisses Christopher’s soft belly, pushing up his jumper as he goes.
And in one delicious breath, Nash undoes the flies on his jeans. His face hovers right over the thin cotton of Christopher’s boxers. He can feel Nash’s breath against him, and it makes him pulse with desire.
‘Yes,’ he gasps with want. ‘Yes.’
There’s one more flash of that satisfied shark grin. Nash’s lips are warm and full and oh god. He sinks into the glorious pleasure of Nash’s mouth, and whimpers under the grip of his hand.
It’s a golden blur of ecstasy that builds and builds, and he knows he is so damn close already.
‘Nash,’ he bleats, trying not to buck his hips against the delicious pleasure. Upon hearing his name, Nash hums in reply. The sensation tips Christopher over the edge, right into the deep bliss of orgasm.
‘Christ,’ he whispers, once he can speak again.
Between his knees, Nash grins up at him and he knows that the only thing he wants to do now is bring this man down to a shivering, crumbling mess too.
‘Get up here,’ he growls, but Nash darts away towards the bedroom, reaching for Christopher as he goes.
Somehow, all while kissing each other, they make their way to the bed. Christopher pushes Nash down onto the mattress. He’s removed his trousers, and so reclines back in a perfect pair of black hipster boxers. A greedy ache rushes through Christopher.
What is it about this man that drives him into such a frenzy? The bickering, the flirting, the push and pull of their sex. There’s something he can’t escape about Nash Nadeau.
He lies down alongside Nash, sliding his hand below the line of Nash’s boxers. To his delight, Nash gasps as his fingers stroke lower, through the soft hair to the warm hard centre of it all.
‘Say please.’
‘Fuck you,’ snarls Nash.
‘Did you mean “me”?’
The surprise on Nash’s face pleases him so much that Christopher feels as if he’s ready to go again. Jesus.
‘Please,’ he purrs.
‘Show me what you want.’
Nash guides Christopher’s hand down. The pleasure of Nash melting beneath him is all new. He strokes down on Nash’s hard cock, and the beautiful, spiky man turns to clay in his hands, whispering directions that thrill Christopher even more.
‘Your mouth,’ Nash commands.
He does what he’s told, and as he takes Nash into his mouth, the man arches his back in the most delicious way.
The only thing that matters in the world right now is making Nash Nadeau orgasm.
And when he does, he releases in a wide-eyed gasp, hands clutched in Christopher’s hair and nails digging into his skin.
They pant together in the heat they’ve created, their bodies glistening with sweat and recent desire.
Christopher can’t believe he did that.
He can’t believe they did that.
Even just a week ago, this would have been beyond his wildest dreams.
He wants to reach out to hold Nash, but he’s so tired he can barely move.
Instead, Nash wriggles back against him. They curl together, Nash’s body fitting so neatly under his chin that Christopher can barely breathe.
Somehow, this moment feels so much more intimate than anything else they just did. He wants to stay awake, learn every contour of Nash’s body, but the radiating warmth of their entwined bodies threatens to lull him to sleep.
He feels . . . safe. Does Nash feel the same way? Does Christopher want Nash to feel that way, after everything? He wills his brain to quieten down, and just enjoy this delicious moment.
His internal whirring is broken open when Nash murmurs, ‘Do you smell something?’
‘Just tell me. I’m too tired for guessing games,’ grumbles Christopher.
‘Like . . . smoke.’
They leap out of bed at the exact same time, almost colliding in the doorway as they race to the kitchen to save the pizza. Luckily, they aren’t entirely cremated, and the pair of them burst into laughter that they’re both butt-naked standing in the kitchen.
‘Imagine if this had caught fire.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Christopher shudders as he cuts up the very dark pizzas into approximate slices and plates them up. He hands a plate to Nash and nods towards the still-open bedroom door. There’s no point pretending they aren’t going to just eat them in bed.
‘The firefighters would show up while we were naked. Or we’d have to go out into the snow in just our pants. Like when you came to rescue me from my prison of my own creation in the bakery kitchen.’
They climb back into bed, plates balanced on their laps. Clearly, Nash is as hungry as Christopher after the long day because the pizzas are gone in minutes, and soon their plates are abandoned on the floor and side table.
Nash lies back, his eyes heavy. ‘God I needed that.’
‘The pizza?’
But there’s no smarmy reply from Nash, because moments later, he’s asleep.
And where he goes, Christopher follows.